《Wandering Skull Story Collection》


 1.The Diary of a Zombie Linguist

    March 26th


    It''s been three days since we relocated to our new base. I managed to salvage Mason''s computer from the wreckage, but unfortunately, I couldn''t save him. The data in his brain was far more valuable than anything stored on this old laptop. Sadly, that data is now in the belly of a zombie.


    Before the last base was overrun, Mason joked about whether zombies would find an engineer''s brain tastier than a regular guard¡¯s because it holds more knowledge. I shot back, asking if he could tell which chicken was the Einstein of its flock when eating. He went silent, probably thinking about the canned chicken we found in that abandoned house last week. That can was tastier than any feast before the Z-virus outbreak, but it didn''t mean the chicken was smarter. It just showed how desperate we are in this apocalypse.


    So, I guess Mason''s tastiness depends on how hungry the zombie was.


    God, what am I even saying?


    I know we''re all on the brink of breakdown and madness in these end times. The worst part is being on the "brink." The human mind''s adaptability is such that mine keeps functioning, even under these conditions. That final thread of sanity is always taut, but it never snaps, never offers release.


    It almost makes me envious of Sasha. I''m sitting here, numbly typing these words, trying to hold onto my sanity, while she''s in the cage behind me, screaming just for food.


    It¡¯s so unfair.


    We''re both starving, yet I have to keep my wits about me. For them, fresh, walking meals are everywhere.


    It makes me want to test Mason''s theory¡ªno, not the one about brains being tastier. I mean his other, less hellish but equally crazy idea.


    These damn zombies, now walking in the decayed shells of our neighbors, family, loved ones, and enemies¡ªwhat are they thinking with their rotting brains?


    If you¡¯re reading this, don¡¯t dismiss it as some kind of philosophical exercise or delusion. I can give you proof, but not today. I need to shut down this damn computer and find some food before I end up trying to eat Sasha.


    March 27th


    I know my writing doesn¡¯t exactly fit the tone of a report to the higher-ups in the survivor team. And I know you have fancier titles, like "The Ark" or "The Last Elect," but let''s drop the formalities. As long as you understand me, that¡¯s what matters.


    Now, I need to explain the question I didn''t get to prove yesterday: Do zombies think? Let Sasha answer that.


    Ah-aaa-oooh.


    Ahhh¡ª


    Okay, you can¡¯t understand that, but it¡¯s not just noise. It¡¯s a signal. Mason and I recorded over 7,000 zombie vocalizations. Sasha, being the only specimen allowed in my lab, has 857 unique sounds. We listened to them all, night after night, like some twisted midnight radio or ASMR playlist. It taught us two things: biologists and IT geeks can get really bored, and zombies do send signals.


    It''s a bit like Morse code, but not quite.


    In Sasha''s growls, there''s a sound that''s a mix between "ah" and "oh." If a human made it, it would be "aaw." But Sasha¡¯s version has a low, throaty vibration. This sound appears in 548 of her 857 growls, almost always at the end, and every time she''s near a living person.


    So we listened to those 548 sounds again, recorded their waveforms, and compared them. Despite differences in pitch, rhythm, and duration¡ªoften muddied by the wet gurgling from her decaying lungs¡ªthe underlying pattern was the same.


    Ah-aaa-oooh.


    Mason and I reached a unanimous conclusion: ¡°Detected prey/food¡± or ¡°Calling for companions.¡±


    That¡¯s the best we could figure.


    Then came the long process of cross-referencing and comparing. We listened to all 7,000 zombie sounds again. At first, I had nightmares¡ªzombies breaking down our doors, snarling in my ears. But by the end, I was analyzing which zombie''s voice was more... pleasant.


    Mason, on the other hand, was different. It was like the Z-virus was spreading through sound alone. Every time he heard an "ah-aaa-oooh," he turned paler, as if he was becoming the prey those signals were calling for.


    On the seventh day of re-listening, Mason snapped.


    He tried to grab a gun from one of the guards. Of course, he didn¡¯t succeed (the guards eat better than we do). I thought he was going to shoot himself, but instead, he started shouting at Sasha, trying to kill her. I don¡¯t know what she did to piss him off. She may be a zombie, but she¡¯s been a pretty good roommate¡ªaside from the noise¡ªand a compliant test subject, never complaining about the electric shocks or injections.


    I wish I could get Sasha¡¯s opinion on this. And actually, I can.


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    I¡¯ll tell you next time.


    April 8th


    It¡¯s been a while since my last entry. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m still alive. I¡¯ve just been out gathering data¡ªa task that sounds a bit gruesome, but you have to admit, in this mutated era, survival often comes with a side of cruelty.


    Okay, it¡¯s not as bad as it sounds. No one¡ªor no zombie¡ªwas harmed in the process. If anything, what took a hit was my conscience. The goal was noble, the process was safe, and the results are still unknown, but likely beneficial. It just feels... uncomfortable to talk about.


    I recorded brainwave patterns from 400 people in Base B¡ªmen, women, children, the elderly, and the strong. I implanted biological chips in them as markers. Yes, it¡¯s that simple. The chips are cheap and mainly used to replace dog tags for soldiers, though more people seem to care about food rations than these high-tech gadgets. I just had them say a few phrases, like "I¡¯m hungry" or "There¡¯s food here," which I think might be the primary signals zombies use. To cover the experiment¡¯s true purpose, I mixed in phrases like "Good morning" and "Goodbye," or even let them say whatever they wanted. Of course, most of what I recorded was heartbreaking. People thought this was a chance to leave their last words or a disguised way to do so.


    Over those days, I probably heard more anguished confessions than any priest at a death row execution.


    I forced myself to focus on the brainwave graphs, not their eyes¡ªI couldn¡¯t bear to imagine what they¡¯d look like once they became samples.


    Anyway, I finished the recordings, grouped them by the phrases and wavelengths, and stored them. It might be a clumsy method, but I believe it will work. It just shows results in a way that''s... hard to accept.


    The part of me that¡¯s still human hopes these results take a long time to manifest. But the scholar in me, cruel as it sounds, secretly hopes at least one or two of them¡ªpreferably those with questionable morals¡ªbecome my research subjects.


    If any of them turn into zombies and are captured, I¡¯ll be able to compare their brainwaves when they were human to those when they¡¯re zombies. To put it simply, if the brainwave pattern of a zombie¡¯s ¡°ah-aaa-oooh¡± matches that of a living person saying ¡°There¡¯s food here,¡± then Mason and I were right.


    I know this method sounds unreliable, and it requires a terrible, painful final sample for comparison.


    But I¡¯m sure it¡¯s worth it.


    I swear on Mason¡¯s brain.


    June 15th


    Base B has been ¡°flooded.¡±


    We now refer to overrun zones as ¡°flooded.¡± It¡¯s the only word that can convey the way the zombie hordes come rushing in like a tide, without causing too much panic¡ªat least it brings to mind water at first glance.


    Most people are crying and mourning. I immediately sought out Joseph, the leader of the survivor rescue team. I made a deal with him¡ªseven cans of Spam (my meat ration for the next three months) and half a year¡¯s worth of fruit vouchers in exchange for bringing back some "people."


    Of course, those ¡°people¡± aren¡¯t meant to be saved for the living world. Their intelligence, love, and souls went to that other world before their bodies did. What I need are their hungry brainwaves and futile howls.


    Because most of the participants had intact arms, I was able to track them down using the biological chips I had implanted. Joseph and his crew, a group of elite firefighters, police officers, and dog catchers, managed to bring back seven samples at the cost of one of their own, along with three of my molars and four ribs.


    Mostly adults, but there were children too.


    I have to admit, I despise Joseph¡¯s team for doing their job so well.


    I even worry that they might have injected the Z-virus into seven survivors. I know that¡¯s unlikely, but I have to think the worst of people around me to keep the courage to continue my experiments and survive.


    This experiment might not yield any positive results and might cost the lives of one¡ªor eight¡ªinnocent people.


    Regardless, I need to uncover that cruel truth. In fact, our district leader, Alexander, is very interested in the results. While he doesn¡¯t agree with my idea of ¡°trying to communicate with zombies,¡± he¡¯s keen on the idea of creating a transmitter that could disrupt their signals.


    So, are Mason¡¯s and my wild ideas about to become humanity¡¯s future strategy for fighting and surviving?


    God, that would truly be the end of the world.


    June 20th


    Below is a summary and analysis of zombie vocalizations. I¡¯ve only selected the most important details, as the full content is too lengthy.


    "Ah-aaa-oooh" means "Prey is here."


    "Oh-oh-oo" is a call to others, though why zombies tend to group even without prey remains a mystery.


    "Mm-oh" is a signal for identifying fellow zombies, but it¡¯s ignored when produced by humans or recordings. The exact method of recognition among zombies is still unclear.


    "Roar-ah" appears to be similar to the purring of feline animals, which helps heal bones. In zombies, this sound seems to force their non-functional stomachs to move, stimulating their hunger.


    I''ve also included a list of various unidentified alert signals in the appendix.


    Conclusion: Zombies do have the ability to emit signals, but these are purely functional, similar to residual nervous system responses and cannot be classified as language. Currently, there is no way to simulate or interfere with these signals. It''s recommended to kill any zombie emitting the "Aa-aa-oo" sound as quickly as possible, preferably with a headshot, to prevent them from summoning others.


    June 20th


    This entry is from my personal journal and doesn''t need to be submitted to Alexander. The real results of the experiment are here. I¡¯m withholding them not out of spite against Alexander, though he did dismiss my work as useless, which, honestly, is fair. My report was mostly filled with correct but redundant information, including the obvious advice to aim for the head when shooting zombies.


    Damn, my stomach hurts¡ªnot because my monthly ration of luncheon meat is now reduced to two ounces, or because I got punched in the gut as a joke when I was demoted¡ªbut because I remembered the way Mason looked at Sasha that day.


    It was pity.


    There are new researchers working with Sasha now. For me, this is a kind of salvation. I no longer have to listen to her howls.


    I only just discovered what those howls really meant.


    The experiment was a success, but the real results aren¡¯t in the report. Instead of simulating zombie language to disrupt them, I fabricated the report to avoid disrupting the soldiers. If they knew the truth, I worry they might hesitate to shoot zombies in the future¡ªor worse, turn the guns on themselves first.


    What those zombies were saying¡ªwell, it¡¯s better you hear it from them.


    I¡¯m going to play the howls of a sample zombie alongside the recorded voices of the same person when they were still human. The brainwave patterns of these two sounds are identical¡ªin other words, what you''re about to hear is the zombie language and its human translation.


    "Christine, I miss you so much."


    "Help, I¡¯m in so much pain, but I¡¯m so hungry."


    "Where are Mom and Dad?"


    "Do you know Eric? I¡¯m looking for him..."


    "I¡¯m so cold, could you pour me a cup of hot cocoa?"


    "This is how the universe works. ehfhdi+4576735''s square root equals Alpha!"


    And then, endlessly, the overwhelming cry of


    "Ah-aaa-oooh" ¡ª "Please, kill me."

 2. Death Sleep

    "In accordance with the court''s ruling, the defendant, Martin Gyllenhaal, has been found guilty of first-degree murder. Considering the critical facts of the case and the defendant''s criminal record, this court sentences the defendant to fifty years of imprisonment followed by execution. The imprisonment shall be carried out in the form of cryogenic sleep, with no possibility of parole."


    As the gavel struck the cushion, I couldn''t help but let out a chuckle. Even my lawyer shot me a glare.


    I turned my head and saw little Alice''s family huddled together, while that beautiful prosecutor whispered words of comfort to them¡ªdamn it, why didn¡¯t I meet her first? Then a large man, probably that fool Alice''s father, tried to shove the bailiff aside to get to me, his neck flushed with rage, but I wasn¡¯t scared, not even if he had managed to reach me.


    After all, I have two diseases: one makes me ruthless, and the other will kill me soon.


    I was just curious how such a soft, delicate girl could have a father who looked like an NBA prospect.


    That made me laugh even harder.


    Fifty years of imprisonment and the death penalty at the same time? Only in America would you find such a ridiculous sentence.


    "Mr. Martin, I assume you¡¯ve heard the verdict." My lawyer straightened the documents on the table. "Your sentence is fifty years of cryogenic sleep followed by execution. There¡¯s nothing I can do about it."


    "I¡¯m practically dead already, so why should I care?" I let out a cold laugh. "The cancer cells are spreading...where again? The doctor said I won¡¯t live another month. Fifty years in prison? I win. Death penalty? I don¡¯t lose either. And getting to watch this whole circus? Worth it."


    "You think this is funny?"


    "No...I just think you lawyers are all heartless."


    "Do you even understand the significance of cryogenic sleep?" My lawyer seemed to be on a different page entirely, ignoring my sarcasm as he adjusted his glasses. "Your cancer may be incurable now, but in the future, it might be treatable. Perhaps...fifty years from now."


    I laughed even louder.


    They¡¯re actually going to waste expensive cryogenic resources just to cure my illness, only to execute me afterward. This country is truly something else.


    "Well, great then. It¡¯s just a long dreamless sleep, right? See you in fifty years, counselor."


    "Though I am your defense attorney..." This time, my lawyer didn¡¯t adjust his glasses but clenched his fists. "I personally despise you."


    "Suit yourself. Plenty of people hate me¡ªyou¡¯ll have to get in line."


    I burst into laughter as the bailiffs escorted me out. Just before stepping out of the courthouse, I couldn¡¯t resist shouting, "God bless America!"


    Then I turned around, expecting to see the plaintiffs¡¯ faces twisted in anger and frustration.


    But I was wrong.


    They were all smiling at me, including the prosecutor.


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    It was a vicious smile. Though it sounds strange, I think it¡¯s the same expression I wore when I tormented those girls.


    For the first time today¡ªno, possibly in my entire life¡ªI felt a chill down my spine.


    The cryogenic sleep chamber¡¯s mattress was more comfortable than I had expected, definitely softer than the cold prison bed.


    But knowing that fifty years of cryogenic sleep would feel like waking up the next day, the comfort seemed like a waste.


    A rather cold, detached nurse finished checking my vitals and heart rate before briefly explaining the procedures for cryogenic sleep. It was nothing more than confirming the sleep duration, explaining that my situation was special and required an additional injection besides the sedative, and that I wouldn¡¯t be able to wake up before the process ended.


    I didn¡¯t pay attention to a single word she said. I was too focused on her pretty little mouth. Damn, in fifty years, this beautiful woman would be an old hag¡ªwhat a shame.


    "...Your sleep state will last for fifty years." The nurse repeated, then attached several electrodes to my head.


    "What, you¡¯re going to monitor my brain waves too?"


    She didn¡¯t answer. She just gave me a smile.


    Damn it, that smile again.


    I was about to say something cheeky when the sedative was injected into my vein. Then came the endless cold and darkness.


    A bunch of fools¡ªsee you in fifty years.


    Fifty years of cryogenic sleep really did pass in an instant.


    I opened my eyes and stared at the blurred ceiling outside the chamber. Fifty years? This looks exactly like it did when I went in.


    I tried to push open the cryogenic sleep chamber¡ªwell, not exactly push. I couldn¡¯t move my arms or legs. They seemed to be restrained.


    "Goddamn it, I¡¯m awake! Get me out of here!"


    I shouted a few times, but there was no response.


    That¡¯s when I noticed something was off. It wasn¡¯t just the lack of response¡ªit was the lack of any sound. Apart from the lingering chill in my body, there was only dead silence.


    I started to panic. Could the cryogenic chamber have malfunctioned and left me trapped in here?


    Just as I was thinking that, the chamber lid opened.


    A blinding white light flashed, and I vaguely saw white figures surrounding me.


    Hmph, I must be a special case¡ªthe first death row inmate to undergo this punishment¡ªso the media¡¯s here to interview me.


    But do journalists usually wear all white?


    I tried to move my neck¡ªsince I couldn¡¯t rub my eyes. The crowd around me became a little clearer. Judging by their attire, they were doctors and nurses, probably here to check my vitals.


    I was just about to say something flirty to the nurse closest to me when a sudden burning sensation filled my throat, followed by the taste of iron. I wanted to shout, but something hard was lodged in my throat, blocking any words.


    That bitch of a nurse had stabbed my throat with a scalpel!


    I finally saw her face clearly.


    It was little Alice.


    Then I saw the faces of everyone around me. They were Gina, Christine, and a few others whose names I couldn¡¯t remember but whose faces I recognized. Oh, and their families. I even saw that prosecutor, the lawyer with the gold-rimmed glasses, and the cold nurse.


    Each of them held a scalpel.


    I desperately tried to wriggle away, but the next second, a cold sensation swept across my chest. It was that nurse. She was slowly tracing my chest with the scalpel, as if deciding where to start cutting.


    Damn it, weren¡¯t they supposed to cure me before executing me? And wasn¡¯t it supposed to be a lethal injection?


    I cursed frantically in my mind. Then I felt a sharp pain in my eyelids, and my world turned red.


    Someone had sliced off my eyelids.


    In that moment, I saw two things clearly.


    First, the clock on the wall hadn¡¯t moved a single second.


    Second, the expressions on everyone¡¯s faces¡ªit was that eerie smile.


    In an instant, I understood everything.


    "Fifty years of imprisonment and the death penalty simultaneously." "Cryogenic sleep is just a long dreamless sleep." "You will be injected with two drugs." "Plenty of people hate me¡ªyou¡¯ll have to get in line..."


    And, "Your sleep state will last for fifty years."


    "This is the brainwave recording of the prisoner Martin Gyllenhaal from today."


    "No, we don¡¯t want to see it..."


    "Give it to me. I want to see."


    "...Alright."


    "Honey, it¡¯s been three years now. It¡¯s enough, more than enough. Stop torturing yourself..."


    "I have to witness this." Alice''s father snatched the tape from the prosecutor''s hand. "The weight of a person¡¯s death¡ªthat inhuman bastard has to know what that feels like." He stared blankly into the distance¡ªalmost as if to motivate himself to say the next words:


    "So do we."

 3.Calico cat

    "You guys, how do you think these boneless chicken wings are made?"


    Alexey pointed at the chicken wings on the grill, which were perfectly crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. We were all full by now, and were just chatting idly.


    Every week, having ¡°Szasz?yki¡± (Polish-style barbecue) at Yuri¡¯s place had become a routine for the four of us bachelors. Having moved to this small town, whether for work or study, we needed something to fill the void of loneliness¡ªand our empty stomachs.


    Sergey picked up a piece of almost disintegrated boneless chicken wing and chewed it. Usually, this kind of thing is better suited for soup. However, at the end of this barbecue feast, a bit of crispy chicken claw could still stir up what little appetite was left. Yuri, chewing away, said, ¡°It must be done by some big machine, just like cracking walnuts¡ªquick and clean.¡± He then picked up another wing, but this time, he didn¡¯t rush to eat it; instead, he scrutinized it for a moment¡ªhe seemed to regret his previous answer as the cut on the chicken wing didn¡¯t look like it was done by a machine.


    ¡°I heard that it¡¯s done by old ladies using their teeth,¡± Yuri said calmly, almost causing Sergey to choke.


    ¡°That¡¯s gross.¡±


    ¡°You think about it¡ªhow can hands or machines be faster than using your mouth?¡± Yuri added, unperturbed.


    ¡°Damn, doesn¡¯t that mean we¡¯re indirectly kissing old ladies?¡± Alexey swore as he tossed the chicken wing into his mouth. Such conversations had become routine; the four of us, sitting together with drinks, weren¡¯t afraid to discuss anything, no matter how disgusting.


    Before long, the sound of chewing on boneless chicken wings had become the starting signal for a ¡°who can tell the grossest story¡± contest. Each of us eagerly shared the most repulsive experiences we had encountered (for the sake of not frightening readers, I won¡¯t repeat them here).


    As the contest drew to a close, each person had shared their most grotesque story, leaving the host Yuri as the only one who hadn¡¯t contributed. He had remained quietly eating slightly charred potatoes.


    That¡¯s when I noticed that he hadn¡¯t really eaten much of the meat.


    ¡°Yuri, why haven¡¯t you shared a story? You¡¯ve been here the longest.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ll throw up on my newly polished wooden floor,¡± Yuri said calmly as he nibbled on a grilled sweet pepper.


    ¡°Stop bragging.¡± Alexey was clearly goaded: ¡°I can watch ¡®The World¡¯s Most Unsettling People¡¯ without blinking. What can you possibly tell that¡¯s worse?¡±


    ¡°Seeing it on TV is different from witnessing it firsthand.¡±


    Yuri¡¯s face suddenly took on a look of someone deeply unsettled.


    ¡°Come on, then spill it. What makes it so different!¡± Alexey, a bit tipsy, insisted on digging deeper.


    Yuri, who seemed adept at building suspense, sipped his vodka and slowly scanned the three of us.


    ¡°This story might not be friendly to cat lovers.¡±


    ¡°I prefer dogs,¡± Alexey replied dismissively.


    ¡°I love my cat, but I enjoy hearing stories more,¡± Sergey said indifferently.


    I love cats, especially their blend of tameness and primal ferocity. But a story is a story. I nodded silently.


    Yuri, seeing the mood was right, began his tale.


    ¡°Have you ever heard of Maple Street?¡±


    ¡°I know it,¡± Alexey rubbed his temples. ¡°It¡¯s a bit out of the way. I pass by there occasionally.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s where my story takes place. I lived there about five or six years ago, and I moved out after this incident.¡±


    ¡°Sounds real convincing,¡± Alexey said, clearly skeptical.


    Yuri ignored him and continued:


    ¡°At that time, I hadn¡¯t managed to sign a contract for a factory dorm, so I had to live there. Even though Maple Street was remote, the rent was quite expensive. Most residents were retired elderly people, so it was pretty quiet at night, which was actually quite nice.¡±


    ¡°I lived at number 17 or 19, can¡¯t remember. Next door lived an elderly lady. I knew her and her husband quite well. They were very nice and welcoming, and I often went over for tea.¡±


    ¡°However, things took a turn for the worse. I had been living there for about three months when the old man passed away, reportedly due to complications from COVID-19. The couple had decided not to have children and had lived together for their entire lives, deeply in love. The old lady was devastated and nearly didn¡¯t make it through. After she eventually recovered, her personality changed. She started crying all night, and the sound was deeply unsettling.¡±


    ¡°Most neighbors knew what was going on and didn¡¯t say anything. We all endured it. I even started using earplugs to sleep. Although social workers occasionally visited and I would visit her from time to time, she would always talk about her late husband, crying as she spoke. I found it uncomfortable to stay around, so I visited her less frequently.¡±


    ¡°So did she go to a nursing home?¡± Sergey asked.


    ¡°No. She couldn¡¯t bear to leave her home. She and her husband had lived there for over thirty years. Actually, a nursing home would have been better for her, saving her from constantly worrying.¡±


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    Yuri sighed.


    ¡°Eventually, perhaps due to concern for her loneliness, someone gave her a calico cat. The old lady was overjoyed and managed to get two or three more cats from somewhere. Her house was soon filled with the sounds of meowing.¡±


    ¡°But as time went by, the neighbors started complaining. The calico cat was one thing, but the others, being feral, were quite disruptive at night. They would knock over vases or dishes, and when they were in heat, they¡¯d make a racket. One time, the guy upstairs almost called the police.¡±


    ¡°Did people really call the police for noise?¡± Alexey asked curiously.


    ¡°Of course. Noise in residential areas can¡¯t exceed 60 decibels from 11 PM to 8 AM.¡±


    ¡°Though, no one would actually call the police over noise, right?¡± Sergey interjected.


    ¡°Exactly. That night, the guy upstairs had just come back from a night shift and was already sleep-deprived. When the cats were making a mess, he nearly called the police. We had to convince him otherwise. The next day, we talked to the old lady. She was understanding and agreed to close her doors and windows at night and even draw the curtains. This way, the noise was minimized. For a few weeks, everything seemed calm. Sometimes, I¡¯d still see the old lady¡¯s shadow, probably sitting in her old rocking chair, watching the cats while listening to Program Trzeci Polskiego Radia. It seemed quite cozy.¡±


    At this point, Yuri frowned, making it hard to tell if he was feeling nostalgic or suppressing other emotions.


    ¡°One day, I came back home later than usual. The old lady¡¯s lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. I saw a shadow moving in the living room, so I thought it was the old lady rocking in her chair and didn¡¯t think much of it.¡±


    ¡°A few days passed, and everything seemed normal. Every day, I could see the old lady¡¯s shadow moving behind the curtains, back and forth.¡±


    ¡°On the fifth night, something felt off.¡±


    ¡°It was a bit hot, so I opened the window for some fresh air. Suddenly, I smelled a foul odor.¡±


    ¡°I was disgusted and was about to close the window when I heard a few cat meows and a strange noise, like the rocking chair creaking, which gave me chills.¡±


    ¡°That night was also garbage collection day, so I thought maybe someone had dumped some kitchen waste downstairs. Although unpleasant, I didn¡¯t think much of it.¡±


    ¡°The next day, the smell was even stronger. The guy upstairs couldn¡¯t take it anymore and banged on the old lady¡¯s door several times. The only responses were cat meows and the creaking of the rocking chair.¡±


    ¡°He realized something was wrong and immediately called the police.¡±


    ¡°When the police arrived, they knocked on the door but received no response. They had to force the door open. As soon as the door was broken down, a terrible stench hit us, and a vague shadow rushed out of the house.¡±


    Yuri took a sip of vodka, clearly needing to brace himself for the next part of the story.


    ¡°I was standing right there when the shadow darted past my legs, nearly giving me a heart attack. Later, I saw that it was the calico cat. It rushed out of the house and swiftly jumped over a nearby fence. Under the moonlight, I saw its appearance¡ªemaciated, covered in blood and filth, I couldn¡¯t tell if it was blood or something else. It had a furry bundle in its mouth.¡±


    ¡°The calico cat locked eyes with me for a few seconds, then leapt off the fence and disappeared into the night.¡±


    ¡°The police came out soon after, and they immediately cordoned off the area and told the onlookers to disperse. I noticed that several officers looked extremely pale, and a young female officer nearly threw up.¡±


    ¡°At that time, I had already guessed most of what had happened. I asked an older officer about what happened. Normally, in such cases, the police would say something like ¡®nothing to see here, go home.¡¯ But this time was different.¡±


    ¡°The officer, looking pale and unwilling to turn back to look at the house, told me, ¡®If I tell you, you might never want to see a cat again.¡¯


    Later, I heard more details from the neighbors¡ªsome of it might have come from the police, and some might have been mere speculation. Everyone was well aware of what had happened, but some details in certain versions were even more horrifying.


    For example, some said that the police found cat hair and feces in the old lady''s stomach¡­


    Others claimed that only one cat remained in the house¡­


    Of course, the most chilling detail was the exact time of the old lady¡¯s death.


    One horrifying version suggested that she had been dead for four days. The moving shadow behind the curtain I saw those nights was actually the cats feeding on her.


    An even more terrifying version was that the old lady was initially just in a coma, and she truly died late the next night¡­ which meant she might have been conscious before then, enduring endless suffering.


    But these rumors were not the most terrifying thing for me.


    What truly gave me nightmares was that three-colored cat.


    Later, I realized that what it carried in its mouth that night was not a fellow cat or a rat¡­


    It was the old lady¡¯s scalp.


    Its gaze was entirely different from the previously lazy and docile cat.


    I find it hard to describe that gaze. You might think I¡¯m exaggerating, but I must tell you, my grandfather once hunted a cannibalistic brown bear in Magadan. I¡¯ve seen the gaze of that beast, and it was exactly the same as that three-colored cat¡¯s. It was a hollow, hungry gaze.


    Perhaps, in its eyes, I was just another piece of moving meat.


    The room fell into a heavy silence.


    Actually, everyone had already guessed what was coming halfway through the story, but Yuri had a natural talent for storytelling that made us shiver involuntarily.


    ¡°This¡­ this story is really¡­¡± Alexei stuttered. He clearly realized that this kind of horror story was not related to whether one liked cats or dogs, nor did it matter whether one could handle gore.


    ¡°Well, such things do happen,¡± Sergei said, taking a sip of vodka. ¡°Pets, in extreme hunger, will naturally prioritize survival. We cannot judge animals by human moral standards. There have been instances of cannibalism in history.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t spout philosophical nonsense,¡± Alexei interrupted, ¡°I just want to know, if there was a cat on your lap right now, how would you feel?¡± He pointed to Sergei¡¯s lap. Sergei shuddered involuntarily, and the fork in his hand fell to the floor.


    ¡°I think Sergei¡¯s point is valid,¡± Yuri stood up and walked to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of chilled beer. ¡°But since then, I¡¯ve developed a phobia of cats. Now, even a glance at those funny cat videos online gives me nightmares.¡±


    It¡¯s not surprising. Anyone who has seen such a scene would probably be haunted by nightmares.


    We chatted for a few more hours until other topics gradually dispelled the chill in our hearts, and then we all went home.


    I walked past Oak Tree Lane.


    I live right there.


    I certainly know which house Yuri was talking about.


    The front of the house is overgrown with weeds, and every time I come back at night, there¡¯s a faint rustling in the bushes, and sometimes I see a pair of glowing green eyes.


    I walked up to the door and knocked. A colorful shadow flashed in front of me.


    It was the three-colored cat.


    It always kept a distance that could either be aggressive or evasive.


    I pulled out a small plastic bag from my pocket, inside was a white chicken foot¡ªthe last one I hadn¡¯t had time to roast today.


    I waved the meat in front of the three-colored cat, and it swiftly grabbed the chicken foot, chewing it with a sense of indifference and still wearing a fierce look.


    No wonder its gaze and smell are different from other domestic or wild cats. It is always so fierce and captivating.


    Next time, I will bring it something it likes even more.


    As long as it listens to me.

 4.Next stop

    "See you tomorrow, Brooklyn!""Yeah... see you tomorrow."


    I waved goodbye to the junior from my company¡ªtruth be told, I''d rather not see him tomorrow. Not that I dislike him but dragging my heavy briefcase and even heavier exhaustion to and from the crowded subway during rush hour is just unbearable. But this daily agony was quickly overshadowed by the eerie atmosphere on the platform.


    First, there was the announcement for the arriving train. The voice was just as mechanical and calm as always, but this time it caught me off guard. ¡°Next stop: Chelsea.¡±


    That can''t be right, can it?


    This subway line only runs within the city limits; how could it be heading to a neighborhood in another part of the country?


    And then there was another oddity. Typically, people waiting for the train would be spread out along the platform, positioned where the doors would open. But not today. Today, all the passengers were gathered in one spot. I started to walk over to see what was going on, but I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    At the front of the crowd, there was a woman standing in the middle of the subway tracks. I was about to shout at her, but a sudden gust of wind whipped past me.The next thing I knew, the air was filled with the metallic scent of blood.


    In that brief moment, the train had rushed in with a deafening horn blast, passed through, cover, and over the woman. Whether the driver was in shock or simply didn''t see her, the train never slowed down, speeding right through the station. A trail of crimson was left on the tracks, something wet and sticky splattering onto the platform near me, accompanied by a sickening, wet crunch.


    I felt a wave of nausea and fumbled for my phone to call the police. But as I looked down, my eyes were drawn to the red and black mess on the ground. It was the woman''s driver¡¯s license, covered in blood. But it wasn¡¯t the blood that caught my attention¡ªit was the name printed in bold black letters that sent chills down my spine.


    Last Name: Chelsea, First Name: Grace


    I covered my mouth, barely suppressing the horror and nausea rising from my stomach.


    Turning towards the crowd, I was about to call out for help, but I realized they were already looking at me, all of them moving towards me in unison¡ªjust like ordinary passengers waiting to board. And I could hear them, mumbling softly as they walked.


    "Missed it... next stop.¡±


    Then, echoing through the subway station came the chilling, automated voice.


    ¡°Next stop: Brooklyn.¡±